


Something Entirely New

by Chelley923



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has Issues, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, so do you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelley923/pseuds/Chelley923
Summary: The war is over, you've heard. It doesn't matter much to you. You're a simple farmer on a nowhere moon. The Resistance, the First Order, both mean nothing to someone like you. The only thing that could change your mind is something totally different, and when an escape pod crashes next to your house, different ends up staring you right in the face. Will meeting a dead man from another life open your eyes (or your heart) to the ways of war?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Reader, Armitage Hux/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 84





	1. Found

You wake early in the morning to the sound of birds chirping outside your window. The pretty tinkling sound, along with the feeling of warm sunlight on your face make you smile, the idea of another early spring day bringing you joy. You stretch and sigh, looking around your bright bedroom before getting up to begin your day. 

With the kettle boiling and your breakfast prepared, you lazily scroll through your datapad. The usual tabloids praising the resistance and mocking the newly dismantled First Order are fleeting images as you skip past them to view agriculture exchange rates on your system's main planet. A beeping sound comes from your nearby holocom, and you groan as you see that it's your parents calling. 

"Morning." You sigh the word out, already knowing where the conversation will go. 

"Good morning, sweetie." Your mum's blue image appears before you. She beams at you. "You look as beautiful as ever. 

"Mhm." You say, giving her a look as you pour yourself some tea. "What do you want, mum?" 

The older woman scoffs in mock offense. "I don't want anything! I was just gonna say that it's a shame you don't live near any handsome men who could appreciate that beauty." 

"Please lay it on thicker, mum." You say, rolling your eyes. "I can't quite tell what you mean." 

"Don't get snarky with me." She pouts. "When you moved out to the middle of nowhere, I thought it was just to... you know... 'find yourself'." She frowns "But now it's been three years and instead of getting married and settling down, you've been bio farming like a peasant." 

You sigh, having had this same argument a hundred times before.

"I don't need a husband, mum. I have my farming droids and my animals and my plants. I also happen to like farming, as homely and dirty as it may seem to you." 

Before she can continue protesting, you rush forward with the conversation.

"Speaking of which, it's almost time to feed and water. Thanks for calling, always nice catching up. Say hi to Dad. Love you byyyyyyyeeee."

You blow her a kiss before quickly hanging up, then rub your face in exasperation before pouring the rest of your tea down the sink. You hadn’t lied about loving your mum and dad, they are good parents. They’re just... exhausting sometimes. 

You reach for a small remote, pressing the on button, and soft music floods the house as you walk back up the stairs to your bedroom. You dress quickly in your work clothes, reaching for your watch on the bedside table last. You hesitate then, looking at the picture frame that sits on top of it. The smiling faces of your friends hold your gaze for a moment but you look away hastily, shaking off the uncomfortable feelings. 

"I don't need to find someone." You say to yourself, fastening the watch and heading down to the front door. 

“Because people on average are the worst.” 

The music follows you outside along multiple outdoor speakers as you move about the farm. You spend most of the morning tending to your Shaaks and Banthas, brushing them and filling their troughs with water before letting them out to graze. You walk among them, making sure that the calves aren’t straying too close to the edge of the mesa that your house and farm sit on. A soft spring breeze blows your hair into your eyes and you brush it away with two fingers, looking up at the fluffy clouds as they float across the sky. You smile serenely at the view, wanting to stay in this moment forever. 

A loud bang to your right snaps you out of your trance, and you turn to squint in the direction. Not many people come and go from this planet, and even fewer of them use lightspeed to get here, which is the sound you had heard. You stare at the upper atmosphere, waiting for something to come into view. Suddenly you spot it; a small spherical craft is hurdling toward the ground. You panic for a moment, as it appears to be coming straight for you, but relax when you realize that it is veering to the right and will simply land nearby. 

“ **Crash** nearby, actually.” You correct yourself, when you note the trail of smoke coming from what you now see is an escape pod. “Better get ready to head over.” 

There is no one else around for miles, so you resign yourself to go and help or welcome the occupants of the pod. You can hear your mum’s panicked voice in your mind, warning you that it could be a resistance fugitive or sith monster in there. She had always been a worrier. You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less if it was a clown with three arms in there, you just know that whomever they are, they'll be stranded for days in dangerous terrain without you. 

You shrug on a leather jacket and goggles, hopping onto your T-85 speeder bike and starting it up with a rev before speeding off just as the boom of the pod's impact sounds. You follow the line of smoke for almost 20 minutes before finally finding the crash site. Twisted metal litters the ground, and a rut has been slashed into the terrain where the pod scraped the ground before coming to a stop. Luckily, there is no fire, though you had packed a fire extinguisher just in case. The smoke is probably from electrical overload, you guess as you walk slowly towards the wreckage. You can’t shake your mother's paranoid warnings, and a hand falls subconsciously to the knife strapped to your belt. You approach the escape pod, examining it until you see a hatch handle. You have to brace one leg against the craft to heave it open, almost falling back when the heavy door detaches completely from the pod. 

You huff, recovering before climbing up to see who might be inside. There had been more smoke inside the pod that outside and you fear the worst as it clears to reveal one unconscious person. You cough, waving an arm to clear the air and get a better look. It’s a human man, sprawled across the bottom of the escape pod with a few possessions scattered around him. You fear the worst initially but, after climbing into the pod to check, note that his chest is rising and falling shallowly from what you can see in the clearing haze. The first thing you notice is the makeshift bandages around his torso. He had been injured before escaping and the wound may be severe. You lean forwards to lift him when he shoots upright, turning to grab a blaster that was near his body. You yelp in shock, scrambling away from him as you pull out your knife. You know it’s useless against a blaster but it’s all you have. 

“Get away from me, you resistance scum!” The man speaks with surprising authority despite the fact that his bloody, dirt caked hands are shaking. 

You are about to tell him that you know nothing about the resistance when his eyes flash with pain and he blacks out again. 

“Well,” you say incredulously, “he was nice.” You try to take a deep calming breath but cough when the lingering smoke invades your lungs. 

“Let’s get you the hell outta here, sunshine.” You say, grunting as you carefully drag the man’s dead weight. “Maybe you’ll even live to see tomorrow.” 


	2. Rescued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luckily for you, the aggressive stranger you rescued stays unconscious for quite a while. This allows you to patch him up and get a better look. But the more you see, the more questions surface in your mind.

Carrying the bloody mass from the wreckage to your speeder had been an ordeal. Even with his clearly malnourished state, he is tall and heavy. You wish you had brought a trailer but recognize that you can’t dwell on poor choices as you carefully prop the man up in front of you on the bike, using your arms to keep him steady. He has lost a lot of blood, if the amount of red staining the escape pod had been any clue. You had put your coat over his shoulders to protect him on the long drive back to the farm and the brisk air sends shivers through you as you race up the wall of the mesa. 

Lunch time has come and gone by the time you stumble through your front door with the man’s arms wrapped around your shoulders. You push your belongings off of your kitchen table before carefully placing the unconscious body to lay face up atop it. You check his pulse and breathing once more before bounding up the stairs to your bedroom. In your closet sits a large trunk, which you look down at now with discomfort. Huffing, you throw it open and pull out two large medical bags. Quickly slamming the lid back on the rest of the chest's contents, you hurry back to your kitchen. 

The first thing you do after placing your medical bags next to the unconscious stranger is wash your hands, which are grimy from the rescue. You also fill a bowl with hot water and grab a clean cloth, placing it on a nearby counter before address your pseudo patient. Remembering his hostile actions from earlier, you unzip one of the med bags and locate a syringe and small jar of sedative. 

“I know you may have a concussion,” You say through your teeth as you tear open the syringe package and spit it onto the floor, “but I can’t have you waking up and trying to kill me again.” 

You roll up his jacket sleeve, find a vein and quickly administer the sedative, taking your first full calm breath since this morning. You find large scissors in the other med bag and begin cutting away his top clothing layers. There’s something familiar about the hexagon shaped patch on his sleeve but you simply take it to mean he was in the war and continue cutting. Once his torso has been revealed, you get a view of the full extent of his injuries. 

His torso appears to have taken the brunt of a blaster bolt. Was he shot during some kind of battle? He looks a bit too skinny to be a soldier, you think to yourself. The only thing that had kept him from being pierced all the way through was some sort of energy absorbing material in the fibers of his undershirt. Still, much of the tissue around his abdomen has been reduced to carnage, and you realize the amount of work ahead of you stitching and disinfecting it is going to be. 

You stand over the man for hours, cutting away charred tissue and stitching what can be salvaged back together. A lamp placed over the bloodied torso and magnifying goggles over your eyes help you to clean and slice with precision. You have amassed a pile of blood-soaked cotton patches, an empty can of bacta joining them as you disinfect the wound bit by bit. The sun is low on the horizon by the time you lean away from him, wiping the sweat from your brow with your dirty sleeve. 

“Illuminators, 90%.” You call out, and the kitchen and living room flood with light. Your hands and eyes ache as you trudge back over to the sink to wash off the gore. Drying your hands on a towel, you glance back at the body on your kitchen table. He is absolutely filthy, the scent of blood and grime radiating off of him from all the way across the kitchen. You would feel awful leaving him in such a state, so you refill your water bowl with hot, soapy water and resign yourself to cleaning the stranger. 

You had barely noticed your music playing softly in the background, having forgotten to turn it off before you had sped off on your speeder bike, and it brings you a sliver of comfort as you return to the graphic scene at your kitchen table. You decide to start at the head and work your way down, squeezing liquid out of your rag before rubbing it gently against his ash covered hair. You smirk as a surprising orange is revealed. It’s a pretty auburn by the time you finished scrubbing all the dirt out. As you move down to the face, you note that his eyebrows are just as fiery. You admire his long eyelashes, trying to remember if his eyes had been blue or green when he had glared at you from behind his blaster. He has plump, pouty lips and without the layer of soot coating his skin, you see just how pale he really is. 

You frown, when you reach his neck, the faded green of old bruises wrapping around the front in the shape of fingers. Whatever type of battles this man had taken part in, he had certainly been on the receiving end of a lot of damage. You find the same evidence of abuse littering his arms and body, sympathy flooding over you for the person laying before you. Who could have done these things to another person? You suppose if he had been imprisoned, his captors might have roughed him up. You carefully dab up whatever mess remains around the blaster wound before spraying it with bacta and wrapping bandages around his stomach area, also using his propped up position to wash his back. You return to the sink to change the water, heat filling your face when you realize you should clean the bottom half too. 

You are attentive as you slowly remove his trousers and underwear, pleading to the stars that you gave him enough sedative to keep him out for another few hours. 

“I won’t look too close,” You chuckle nervously at the man’s sleeping face, “promise.” 

A sound escapes from the back of your throat when you spot another bolt wound on the meaty part of his left leg. This man was a survivor if nothing else. After fixing the stitches on that wound, cleaning the rest of him is otherwise uneventful. Once you’ve finished, you scurry off to put the soiled bottoms in the wash, along with an old sweatshirt of your father’s that you have in your closet. With the unconscious man fully cleaned, you cover him with a blanket and clean up a bit around the bloodied kitchen. You look down as your watch beeps, cursing when you see that it is time to call the herd back in. With one last worried peek at the slumbering newcomer, you stumble drowsily out into fields to finish the day’s chores. 

Dressing a dead-weight adult is quite a hassle, and you stop when you have gotten his bottoms on, huffing with exhaustion as you place him on your couch. You had habitually taken your emergency bag of fluids out of the freezer prior to working on the man, and you set up an impromptu drip by hooking it onto your coat rack and placing it next to the couch. You want more than anything to sit down and rest, but you know that if you do, you’ll pass out. Instead, you drag yourself upstairs to shower and get ready for bed. In the shower, you stretch, your overused muscles protesting the movement.

Dozens of questions about the man sleeping on your couch invade your thoughts. Where had he come from? Why had there been no one else with him in the escape pod? The black uniform suggests that he was on the side of the First Order, but you thought all of those people were captured or dead. Also, stormtroopers usually fought that side's battles, and that man wasn't wearing any armor. "What a mess." You grumble before shutting off the water. 

“Luminators, 0%.” You groan, flopping down into the love-seat near the foot of the couch. 

You click on the lamp next to you, eyes heavy as you peer sleepily at your guest. His chest rises and falls peacefully as you observe him fully for the first time. His face is aristocratic and handsome, and his plush lips draw your admiration like a magnet. You can't help obsessing over his gorgeous hair, so silky and vibrant. Maybe you're delirious with exhaustion, or maybe three years of living on a planet of mainly Amani and Lurmen people has made you soft, but seeing another human makes you feel something you haven't felt in a long time. You shake your head, thinking you are definitely delirious. He tried to kill you in the first seconds after you met. He's probably a mindless soldier, taught to shoot first and ask questions later. You sigh, wondering what you've gotten yourself into. War monger or not, you think, no one deserves to die alone. 

“Sleep well, whatever-your-name-is.” You murmur as you pull your comforter up around you. “I hope you live.” 


	3. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping beauty awakes, but his attitude definitely doesn't match the pretty face.

The familiar morning sounds slowly fill your ears as you wake up hesitantly. Your muscles are tender from overexertion, and you groan softly as you sit up straight in your makeshift bed. You force yourself to be alert as you look over at the couch. The man continues to rest, undisturbed since the night before. You'll keep your fingers crossed that he doesn't have any brain damage, seeing as his pulse and breathing are still regular. You take your time folding up your blanket and taking it upstairs, your legs protesting every step. After slowly getting dressed and ready for the day, you decide to make a cup of caf. Despite hating the bitter taste of it, you need the energy. With the kettle boiling you begin preparing breakfast, knowing that if your new houseguest wakes up, he’ll probably be starving. Your mind drifts as you work and you begin to hum softly. You’re so focused on stirring up rice porridge, you hardly notice the sounds of stirring behind you. 

* * *

Hux can feel his consciousness clawing its way out of an intense darkness. He wonders if this is him dying, and what will wait for him on the other side. The sound of a woman’s voice softly humming comforts him. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg fills his nostrils, something warm and sweet is cooking. It reminds him of his birth mother, and he thinks that maybe being dead won’t be so bad after all. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the realization that he can open his eyes. His lids flutter as he gets used to the brightness of the room he’s in. He stares straight ahead to see a bookcase full of books about medicine and agriculture. He feels something brushing against his left wrist, and looks down to see an IV. The simple motion of looking down makes his head pound, and there is a burning pain coming from his midsection and leg. _Right_ , he remembers, _I got shot. Twice_. This thought triggers an avalanche of memories, and Hux panics, tearing the tube from his arm and flying off of the couch. He hears a gasp from behind him and whips around to see a woman, dressed in civilian clothing, standing in front of a stove. 

“Where am I?” Hux rasps out, his throat dry and scratchy. “Who are you?” 

He tries to stand up but the pain from his wounds makes it nearly impossible. She turns to move something on the stove before rushing over to him, making him scramble away, crawling back until his backside hits a chair. How had he gotten here? Where was General Pryde, the Steadfast, Ren? What about the battle? 

“I demand you tell me what happened.” He tries to speak with authority in spite of his racing heartbeat. 

* * *

You hadn’t thought about what waking up on a completely different planet, in the house of a stranger even, after a traumatic injury might do to the man when he awoke, but the sound of him crashing to the ground answers any of those wonderings before they can even happen. You whirl around to see the half-naked man laying in a heap next to the couch, a small smear of blood on his arm from where he had torn out his IV. 

You’re not surprised when he gasps out questions of how he came to be here, but you can see blood beginning to seep through his bandages, so instead of answering, you take the porridge off its hot burner and rush into the living room to stop him from hurting himself any further. The way he backs away from you is like a wounded animal, and you curse your hasty approach, slowing as you crouch down in front of him. 

“My name is (Y/N).” You say softly. “You’re in my home, on my farm, on Lyxaqin.” 

The look of confusion on his face is apparent; he doesn’t recognize the name. You rush to explain further. 

“It’s a small planet near Maridun.” 

“The Outer Rim.” He whispers more to himself than you. 

You nod, trying to reassure him. “Yes, you were in an escape pod that crashed nearby. You were injured, dehydrated and had inhaled a lot of smoke, so I dragged you out and brought you here.” 

“Where’s the doctor?” The man says, looking over to the IV and then down to his bandaged torso and thigh. 

You grin, chuckling a bit. “You’re looking at her. I did what I could to piece together what was left of your stomach region and leg, then disinfected both areas.”

Your smile drops when you notice that he is still staring at you apprehensively. Clearing your throat awkwardly, you focus back on the medical side of things. 

“Speaking of which, your little tumble there seems to have caused some bleeding to start up again. It was time to change those bandages anyway but I was going wait until you woke up.” You lift your hand up slowly to motion that you would like to help him, but he recoils. 

“I don’t need help from a farmer.” He barks. “Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?” 

His rudeness stuns you. He doesn’t seem thankful at all that you saved him. “You were bleeding to death, and the closest hospital is on the other side of the planet.” You speak slowly, your tone sharp. Your brows furrow. “Also, I have _chosen_ to be a bio farmer, but I have a medical doctorate. Not that I should have to prove myself to the guy I rescued from a smoking wreckage and spent 6 hours performing surgery on.” 

The two of you stare angrily at each other for almost a minute before the man looks away, still frowning. You take that as him having weighed his options and seen no alternative to letting you help him. You try to calm yourself, holding your hands out once more with a smirk. The stranger glares at them for a moment before nodding briskly and you roll your eyes as you reach for his arms and help him stand. 

You redress his wounds silently, though your eyes flash up to observe his expression multiple times. His face is set in a stony frown, and he seems to be avoiding eye contact with all his might. You suppose his line of work requires him to be so stoic and professional, but it still irritates you. Once you’ve finished tending to him, the man holds out his arms again, and you look down at him questioningly from your standing position. 

“Well?” He snaps. “Aren’t you going to help me up?” 

Agitation bubbles up in you again, but you stamp it down with great effort. “No, I’m not. Actually. You should be resting, and excessive movement won’t help you heal any faster.” 

The redhead scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, I have to retrieve my belongings from the wreckage.” 

“If you mean that blaster rifle you pointed at me when we first met,” You frown down at him. “It’s safely stowed away where it can’t be used to murder me.” 

The man looks like he’s straining to remember doing what you said but then he shakes his head. “No, not the blaster. My datapad. I’m sure it must be in there somewhere.” 

“No offense,” you mutter, “but I’m guessing you weren’t in any shape to pack before you got in that pod, and I didn’t see any tech in there that wasn’t smouldering.” 

“What do you know about how I got here?” He almost shouts, making you flinch. 

“Nothing!” You respond in a defensive tone. “Aside from the fact that you were shot before you got in there and were probably tossed in by someone who didn’t have time to strap you into a seat before sending you off.” 

The man becomes pensive after that, glowering at the wall. You exhale heavily, having liked him much better unconscious than awake. 

“Listen, honey.” You speak gently, leaning down a bit to be at his level. “I can help you go there eventually, but right now you are seriously injured and you need to rest. Okay?” 

The man frowns deeper, if that’s even possible and finally meets your eyes. “Don’t call me ‘honey’.” He grunts. 

You take that as an affirmation that he will stay, nodding at him before straightening up. 

“Well I did try to introduce myself a minute ago.” You argue teasingly. “If it’s not Honey, then what **is** your name?” 

A look of genuine surprise crosses his features, making you wonder if he’s famous, or infamous. His lips form a tight line then, and you raise an eyebrow at him as if to ask him if this is too difficult a question. 

“My name is classified.” His response is clipped. “You may call me General.” 

You giggle at this. General or not, the war is over; any classified information is common knowledge to anyone who cares to know it. You suppose that he may not know that, but you don’t think it wise to break that news to him all at once. He’s staring at you with a guarded expression, so you decide to humour him just this once. 

“Fine, General works... for now.” You turn away from him, walking back to the kitchen. 

“I made some breakfast.” You call back over your shoulder, placing the porridge back on the burner and stirring it vigorously. 

“I’m not hungry.” You hear his grumpy response and scoff. You really hope he’s not going to keep up this childish behaviour for long. 

“You might not **feel** hungry, but you look like you haven’t eaten anything in days. I know for a fact that you haven’t in the last 24 hours. It’d be stupid to think that you don’t need to have regular meals, especially if you were trying to get healthy faster.” 

The General says nothing, and you know he’s pouting without having to turn around. You grab a ladle and serve up two bowls of rice porridge just as the kettle comes to a boil. You pour water into a mug with the caf powder and add a generous amount of sugar. 

“Is that caf?” You hear his voice, much more polite, ask from behind you. A smile forms on your lips. At least he’s not a total grump. 

“Yes,” You respond lightly. “Unfortunately, in case you’ve forgotten, you have a serious injury around your stomach area. All I can give you right now is water.” 

The look you receive when you glance up after placing a bowl of porridge in his hand and a glass of water on the end table next to him is as sour as you had been expecting and you beam at him, trying to get anything that isn’t a frown out of him. No luck; he doesn’t even look at you, choosing instead to regard the porridge with disgust. 

“Hm.” You shrug. You return to the kitchen and rummage around the medical bags on the counter for a moment. Returning to his side, you crouch down fully so that you can look up at him through your lashes. “If you don’t eat, then I can’t give you these pain meds.” You murmur sweetly. “Don't worry, I made the porridge nice and sweet.” 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.” The General complains, but pulls the spoon out of the bowl and takes a bite anyway. You nod and give him the two pills before getting up to return to your own breakfast. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t acting like one.” You mumble under your breath. What are you going to do with this character? 


	4. Ticked off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your houseguest turns out to be unbearably bossy. Fortunately, you've never been one to take anybody's crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story: The same day I set up a regular update schedule, my grandfather fell and had a brain bleed. He's doing better now but his mobility is low so I'm only updating when I can.

The next few days feel like an eternity for you as you try to balance caring for the General and the farm at the same time. The man refuses to go outside, going against your medical advice of needing to move and get fresh air, and chooses instead to stay inside. He alternates between reading the many books from the bookcase and critiquing your daily lifestyle, much to your dismay. Helping him to the bathroom is the only time you speak to each other aside from his rude comments. Everything seems to be an argument with this man. By the end of your first week with him around, you’ve had just about enough of his bossiness.

“Here’s dinner.” You mutter, placing a steaming bowl in front of him with little grace.

“What is this?” He says, turning up his nose like he has with almost every meal you’ve given him.

“It’s stew.” You snap at him. “What’s the problem?”

“Why you continue to feed me as though I’m a geriatric is beyond me.” The General says, turning to place it on the end table. “Give me something more substantial. I need to build my strength up so I can get out of here sooner.”

You’ve been taking his authoritarian military nonsense with little response for quite a while now but this is the last straw for you. You squat down to the couch’s level and stare daggers into his ocean-coloured eyes.  
“Listen you.” You growl, jamming a finger towards his face. “I have been cooking and caring for you for just over a week, and you have yet to show me any kind of gratitude. I have had it up to here with your condescending attitude. You may have been a General but this is **my** house and you are **my** guest. Act like it.” The General glares back at you, but remains silent. “As for the food; I keep telling you that I’m a doctor and you suffered burns to the exterior wall of your stomach and small intestine. I already hate escorting you to and from the bathroom, I don’t want to have to do it more often.” You pick the stew back up and shove it back into his hands. “In my medical opinion, you should shut up and eat it.”

  
The man’s cheeks are flushed with anger, and you think he’s going to respond, but he just huffs and begins eating silently. You jump back up, stomping away from him to go eat in the kitchen. What a pain in the ass.

* * *

Hux fumes silently as he eats the stew. It doesn’t taste half bad, but he’ll never admit it. His caregiver is infuriating, everything about her is subpar. She is disorganized, she is constantly playing music, and her daily tasks are done with no regard for efficiency. He can now add rude to that list. _She would make a terrible officer_ , Hux thinks as he angrily chews a chunk of potato. _She’s not an officer though_ , a voice in the back of his mind pipes up. He supposes his mannerism might be a bit too critical for a civilian.

He’s been in charge of others for so long, does he even remember how to be a regular person? She could have just as easily left him to die in the escape pod and looted the wreck, leaving him to bleed out or be eaten by wildlife. He decides that he will attempt to be more civil, though he’s not sure how.

“How does one go from being a surgeon to a farmer?” Hux asks quietly as the woman retrieves his empty bowl and refills his water glass. He tries to make eye contact with her, but she turns to go back to the kitchen without looking at him. 

“Maybe I just hated caring for irritating patients.” She mutters sarcastically. 

  
He huffs, not sure if it’s a touchy subject or she’s still upset about his behaviour. He has never really looked at her, he realizes, examining the back of her as she strides back to the kitchen. Her hair looks soft and silky, pulled up into a high ponytail. Her clothing is plain, but it's clean and fits her curvy form well. She’s not terrible looking, he muses, blushing when he catches himself staring at her butt.

“It's just...” He tries again. “From what I’ve seen of my blaster wound, you are a competent medical professional.”

  
(Y/N) finally turns to face him, her eyebrows raised. “A competent medical professional...” she stretches the words out, “Do you use that line on all the girls?”

  
Hux frowns, but supposes that teasing is better than anger. He has been laying on the couch facing away from the kitchen until now, and attempts to shift around so that he can stop straining his neck. The movement is more difficult than he had thought, however and he nearly rolls off of the couch. Lucky for him, (Y/N) had been heading back to the living room anyway, her arm reaching around his shoulders just in time.

* * *

You dive quickly as you see the General rolling unsteadily towards the edge of the couch. Your left arm catches him mid-fall, and you hold him for a second, exhaling in relief. His chin is against you shoulder, and you can feel heat radiating from him. The two of you have never interacted in a manner that wasn’t stiff and clinical, your current position far more intimate than any you’d shared before. You push him back onto the couch facing the way he had wanted to be, then lift his shirt to check that there’s no blood on the bandages. As you replace the fabric on his torso, you notice that he hasn’t made a sound since before you’d caught him. You glance up to find him staring at you intently in a way that sends blood rushing to your face. In an effort to relieve the tension, you decide to answer his question honestly.

“Being able to save people was the whole reason I studied medicine.” You speak softly. “But in the end, it didn’t help me save the people I wanted to protect the most.” 

The General looks like he wants to question you further, but thankfully doesn’t press you for details. You move away from the couch, trying to find a topic to lighten the mood. Since the man seems to genuinely be trying to talk normally, you suppose you should return the favour. 

“I'm going to have to restock soon.” You say, glancing at the emptied medical bags in the kitchen.

“I suppose I’m not well enough to come with you.” He guesses.

“Not yet, no.” You respond, shaking your head. “I’ll also try to pick you up some clothes.”   
You smirk then. “You know, wiping yourself with a cloth while sitting can only get you so clean. You stink.” You giggle when he scowls at you.

“What else would you have me do in my current state?” He grunts, highly offended. You can tell that he is used to being very tidy, his constant nagging about your cleaning a good hint to that.

You smirk, getting up to make your way over to the staircase before turning back to look at him.

“I suggest you come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to help you bathe.” You grin, quirking an eyebrow at him. His face turns a lovely shade of pink, and he snatches up the book he was reading earlier from the end table, using it to cover any emotions he may have about what you said. You can’t help thinking he’s cute and you have to stifle laughter as you head up to bed.

“ Get some sleep, General.” You call back to him. 

Tomorrow should be interesting.


	5. Washed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Splish splash, grumpy man gets a bath.

The morning after your conversation with the General, you are up before sunrise. You like to be the first customer at the market on restocking days so you can haggle prices uninterrupted. You yawn as you feed your animals, your breath a barely visible fog in the cool spring air. You prep your speeder with goods and storage for the journey, hoping to trade veggies and shaak meat for most of the items on your grocery list. Just as you are about to leave, you hear a light snore from the couch. Even though the General does know where you’re going today, you write out a brief message on a piece of paper for him and place it on top of the book he has been reading, pausing to observe his sleeping form a second longer before heading out. 

You arrive at the village shortly after sunrise, its rough gravel streets nearly deserted. You greet the familiar wares merchants as you begin making your rounds. All in all, the people of Lyxaqin treat you like a native, though you occasionally have to argue with the older males to get fair trade rates for your goods. The morning wears on, and as more people enter the main market area, you catch whispers and speculations about the crash from last week. You are about to pipe up about your rescued guest but hesitate when you zero in on two older men conversing nearby.

“From what I heard, it was a First Order craft.” The taller of the two, a slimy Amani man grunts.

The shorter man, a gray Lurmen, nods. “You think it was an officer or some big shot in there?”

“Who cares?” The tall man scoffs. “Vermin like them are all the same. Evil to the core.”

The shorter man chuckles. “Doesn’t matter anyway. From the state of the wreck, there’s no way anyone survived.” He shrugs. “Besides, the war’s done. Ain’t no sides anymore. Just people trying to forget.”

“Whether the war is over or not, I don’t want one of those monsters on our planet, or even in our system.” The first man growls, spitting with a look of disgust on his green face. 

You focus your attention back to loading up your speeder then, but you let the villagers' words sink in. Your mother always said you were too trusting. There’s a high probability that the injured man sleeping in your living room could be a war criminal. You frown, pulling your lip between your teeth in worry as you get into your speeder to head home.   
The craft zips over the rocky valley terrain, and you stare out towards the low morning sun. You suppose that war affects everyone, whether you are directly involved or not. You have your own secrets from a harsher time, and it is pretty clear that the General does too, seeing as how he won’t even tell you his name. You’ve respected his privacy by not looking him up thus far, and as long as he stays relatively harmless, you decide that you can keep things this way. By the time you get back, the General is awake, reading silently as he usually does.

“Morning.” You say softly as you pass the living room with your arms full of bundled supplies.

You get a grunt in response, as you’ve grown used to from him. After two more trips to the barn and the speeder, you head to the kitchen to start on breakfast. You had spent the later part of your drive home thinking about ways to make what needs to happen today easier for your guest, knowing how professional he always is. You peek at the man as you shuffle back and forth from the sink and cabinets to the stove. His hair is still beautiful, if not unruly and a bit greasy, and his pink lips are set in a slight frown as he focuses on the words in your old surgical textbook. You can barely see his ocean coloured eyes through his long eyelashes, your gaze travelling down to his slender fingers as he turns to the next page quietly. You don’t notice that your movements have slowed until the kettle starts to whistle, pulling you back to finishing your cooking. You would usually be playing music at this point in the day, but you know how much Mr. Grumpy likes peaceful mornings, so you keep the sounds to a minimum. You make a point to block his view of you while you plate up breakfast, then head into the living room with a tray in your hands.

“Surprise.” You sing cheerily, placing a tray containing a bowl of porridge, a mug of tea and some sweet red berries on a napkin on the table in front of him. He eyes the spread with mild interest, sitting up with a grunt of pain. “Caf is still a bit too hard on the system, but I think you should be able to have some tea now.” You try to gauge his reaction but he is unreadable, so you continue. “I also gave you some fruit to test how you digest tougher things like seeds.”

The General says nothing, staring at you intently with the same intimidating gaze from yesterday night. You force yourself to remain casual, prepping your own mug of tea before looking up at him again. What kind of life has he lived to be able to hide every bit of emotion or thought from his facial features and body language? You wonder. If you hadn’t performed surgery on him, you would swear the man was a droid. He is human though, which means there must be some way to get a reaction that isn’t annoyed or angry out of him.

“How do you like your tea?” You ask, holding up cream and sugar containers. You’re beginning to feel a bit nervous as a moment of silence passes, the General still examining you.

Finally, he leans back into the couch. “No milk, three spoons sugar.” His tone is guarded, his lips turned down in his signature frown. “What do you want?” Had quickly adds.

“Nothing.” You blurt, trying to sound innocent. “I was just trying to make you more comfortable, make sure you’re in a good mood.”

You try once again to coax a positive reaction out of him by smiling sheepishly but his eyes simply narrow further. Something… anything? You give up then, slumping a bit in defeat. You suppose that sweet-talking a man like him was a foolish tactic anyway, and being blunt might work a little bit better.

“Fine.” You huff defeatedly. “You need a proper bath, General.” You say bluntly.

The General scoffs. “That’s all?” His superior tone creeps back into the light. “Once I finish eating, I will bathe myself.”

You squint a bit, hesitating, and he looks at you, once more annoyed. “You will probably have to run the water for me, but I have no qualms about washing. Why are you looking at me like that?”

You scrunch your face even more, knowing that this conversation is going to be like pulling teeth.

“So…” you drag out the word as long as you can, “ since you didn’t want to take my advice and get up to go sit outside every once in a while, I don’t trust you to safely get in and out of the tub by yourself.”

A nervous grin forms on your face but it is quickly stamped down by his intense scowl. You rush to continue. “You also shouldn’t be raising your arms too much, so you can’t wash your hair thoroughly either. It wouldn't be safe to leave you alone in water so…” You pause again, steeling yourself. “I will have to bathe you; it is the only safe way for you to get clean.” 

A moment of what can only be described as cripplingly awkward silence passes. For a second, you think he may actually concede without argument, but that hope is immediately dashed.

“Absolutely not. I am an adult. Injured or not, I do not need you hovering over me like a nanny droid. There is absolutely no way in hell I would ever let you undress or bathe me.”

You sigh, already feeling exasperated. “ Don’t be so prudish. Who do you think cleaned you after surgery? Any modesty you are holding onto has been seen already.”

The General’s face flushes deeply upon learning this fact. “I was not able to give you permission then and you don't have my permission now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry but this isn’t up for debate. You need to bathe and I need to assist you.”  
The General straightens up, you guess to try and gain back his military air. “No way. Never and by no means—”

* * *

“This is ridiculous.” Hux glowers, closing his eyes as (Y/N) pours water on his head.

“Don’t be such a big baby.” The woman responds from her position seated on the edge of the tub.

After almost 40 minutes of back and forth arguing, she had threatened to hose him off in the barn like a bantha if he didn’t let her clean him. Hux had shouted that he was fine, had even gone so far as to try and stand up, but his body had betrayed him. He was forced to agree, albeit grudgingly.

Neither of them had said anything while (Y/N) had removed his clothing, and he had tried his hardest not to look at her during the whole humiliating process. If his bridge crew —if Ren and Pryde— could see him now. He glowers, hissing when (Y/N) presses a washcloth just above his torso wound.

“Dammit woman!” He snarls. “Can you not be utterly incompetent in even this simple task?” 

(Y/N) recoils slightly, and Hux glares up at her angrily, daring her to give him attitude. Instead, the woman simply takes a breath before leaning back down to wet the cloth again. 

“Were you thinking about your subordinates seeing you in such a sad state?” Hux is genuinely taken aback at her being able to guess his thoughts. His expression betrays nothing, but softens from full on rage to his usual frown.

“I care more about what the ranks above me would think.” He confesses quietly.

“Military types,” the woman muses, rolling her eyes, “always so worried about their image.”  
Hux huffs at this. Of course, a civilian like her would never understand the pressures of First Order leadership. She’s also younger than him, though not by too much he guesses.

“I suppose skills speak for themselves in the medical field.” He says bitterly as the woman scrubs his arms and shoulders “In the military, however, you can spend your whole life working to be the best and still get no respect.”

When a full minute passes without a response, Hux glances up at his caretaker. Her plump lips are drawn in a slight frown, and she seems to be thinking deeply. He wonders if he has hit yet another sensitive topic for her, but before he can voice his thoughts, an over aggressive scrub on his leg wound makes him hiss in pain.

“Sorry!” (Y/N) exclaims before he can chastise her again. She rubs the bottoms of his feet vigorously with the cloth before motioning for him to take it.  
“You can take care of… the rest.” She says, clearly trying to word it so as not to make him uncomfortable, but making it even more so by not simply saying lower half. “I'll need you to turn first so I can wash you hair though.”

The General shifts his body slightly so that his back is turned to her, and hears a bottle being opened before hands start massaging shampoo onto his head. The smell of cucumber and mint fills his nostrils as (Y/N) lathers up his hair. He doesn’t even notice when his eyes slip closed, the feeling of her gentle but firm fingers rubbing in circles along his scalp, relaxing him. Warm water is poured over him once more, and then the ministrations continue with conditioner. Hux’s heartbeat slows, his ever troubled mind blanking for what feels like the first time in his life. He had never been pampered as a child, his father always told him it would spoil him. Brendol is long dead now, he reminds himself, and he is far from his old life. Maybe he could let himself be spoiled, he decides, if just a little.

A sigh from behind him brings Hux's attention back to reality in time to catch his caretakers fond words.

“Stars, your hair is gorgeous.”

The man’s cheeks flush at the compliment but he remains stoic. A final rinse, and he is helped out of the tub, wrapped in a towel and led into what he assumes is (Y/N)’s bedroom. She deposits him on the bed, then turns to pull the clothing items she's purchased for him out of a laundry basket. She shows him each one, and he’s surprised by how tasteful they are. He was half expecting old jeans and flannel. Once he's seen his options, Hux picks out a dark green button up and black pants. Being dressed is far less awkward than being undressed for him, and the smell of fresh laundry and soap makes him feel revitalized.  
His caretaker steps away from him then, looking him up and down with a grin. Hux eyes her defensively but she just smiles wider.

“Don’t you clean up nice.” She teases him. “Almost makes up for that bad attitude.”

Hux makes an indignant sound, looking off to the side with a frown. “You’ve already bathed me, I’m not sure why you’re trying to flatter me now.”

His glower is interrupted by him having to swipe his wet hair away from his forehead. (Y/N) sits on the bed, picking up his discarded towel and rubbing it vigorously against his head. Once his hair looks sufficiently dried she pulls the fabric away, returning the man’s sight. He hadn’t realized how close they were to each other until now. Hux has to look down his nose to stare at her. The woman’s eyes are warm and playful, a soft smile still lingering on her rosy lips. 

“If we talked more, you would know that I like to compliment people.” She says softly looking deep into his eyes. The air in the room seems to grow warm for a moment, and the General has to break their stare-down for fear of her seeing his face flush. “Alright.” She says abruptly. “ Let’s get you back downstairs.”

With a grunt of discomfort, Hux is hoisted up with (Y/N)’s help. As they turn to exit the room, he spots the latch of a box, shining in the closet. His curiosity spikes, but he says nothing as the two exit and head back to the living room.


End file.
